


And the Name Was With Him

by Kahvi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, Trans Character, Trans Crowley (Good Omens), Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24644464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: There is nothing else like Crowley in the universe, and Aziraphale wants to know all of him. Even if it takes them both a little while to figure out exactly what that is.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33





	And the Name Was With Him

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Roadsterguy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadsterguy/gifts).
  * Inspired by [From So Simple A Beginning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24627292) by [Roadsterguy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadsterguy/pseuds/Roadsterguy). 



In the beginning, there was… well,  _ what _ , really? The him that had just come into being could see himself as separate to the rest of the All, and he saw that it was good. As these things go. He was, near as he could make out, light. Just light and a bit of energy, but light that knew it was light; that could think these thoughts and know itself. There was a void, and there was him, and there was the All, from which he came. There were others, too; little shapes of light and energy swirling around the void of nothing, orbiting that great mass of  _ everything  _ that was so omnipresent that it was almost like it wasn’t there at all. He turned his attention to the All, stretching the tendrils of himself out to reach for it. Warm, rich clarity suffused him, coalescing in the innermost part of who he was. Something new: 

_ Aziraphale _ . He felt his name deep within, a blessing from the All.  _ I am Aziraphale _ . 

Other beings, not-himselves, twirled down and up and around him. All light, all energy, all glorious aspects of the All, made self-aware. All equally delightful. Such different shapes and flavors! Energies and wavelengths; infinite diversity! Aziraphale spun around them, observing, learning their names. Gabriel.  Beelzebub . Michael. Lucifer.  _ Hello! Hello! Hello!  _ A chorus of I am I am I am, from that first source, resting in joyful existence. 

And there! At the edge of his awareness, a pulsing swirl of red-shift. A newness in the new; another difference! Aziraphale hurled himself towards it, but it shied away from him, darting in and out of the coronas of brighter beings. In his existence, which always had been and always would be, albeit just created, Aziraphale had never seen such depth of formless substance. 

_ Your name _ , he called to it.  _ Hello! I am (I am, I am, I am) Aziraphale!  _

_ Who. Me?  _

_ Yes! You! Isn’t it wonderful to exist? To be me? To be you? _

The red-shifted light hesitated. As it spun on its own axis, Aziraphale could feel its attention. It pooled in him like the attention of the All, but did not stop at a drop of essence in his core. Instead, it flowed out into the edges of him, tingling, utterly infusing him with its awareness. 

_ Oh,  _ he said, having no word for this feeling. For any of this. Everything in him came from the All, and with it came the knowing, came names, came definition. Not here.  _ Who are you? What is your name?  _

It darkened in shade, still intertwined with him.  _ I have a name. But  _ this  _ is my all. My name is just my name.  _

Aziraphale fluttered, confused.  _ But is your name not your all? How can it-  _ But the being was gone, leaving only traces of its innermost self inside of him. Little dots of red in the white and white and white. 

And then there were stars, and more things to explore, and after what was not quite yet time, the redness faded.

* * *

  
  


She who was the Word and the All, and Was and Is and Will Be had been very clear, or at least the Metatron had been clear on her behalf:  _ No swapsies _ . The quartermaster, resplendent in his own, brand new body, had been equally firm, and between the two of them, Aziraphale was startled to admit he’d rather face God’s wrath than his. “This is your body,” he had  _ spoken _ , with his  _ mouth  _ \- gosh, so much to discover and experience! “Granted by The Divine in Her infinite wisdom. Use it wisely, and for Her sake, don’t fuck about with it!” 

Which was all very well, of course. The general consensus was that fiddling with what had been provided for you went against the  _ spirit  _ of the thing. Besides which, it would be terribly confusing sorting out who was who. 

Aziraphale was rather pleased with his own appearance, such as it was. Quite light and pale in color, a little soft around the edges and the middle, strong legs. Not too tall or short, he decided, once those concepts had settled in his mind enough for him to judge by them. He had all the bits of a human male, though of course none of the angelic host had cause to use their genitals, nor did they make much of the matter of gender. Most refused to settle on one, or in Michael’s case, even acknowledge it. Well, it wasn’t like the shape of your body mattered. You lived in it, and it was comfortable, and that was that. 

All of which made it terribly painful to see how poorly Crawley was getting on. Yes, it must have been harrowing to get such a dressing down from the All, but Crawley was used to that. Aziraphale had never seen him - or perhaps her - looking so miserable. Every time they had occasion to meet, Crawley was over in some corner, plucking at loose bits of robe, like it wasn’t fitting properly. Aziraphale tried his best to be demonstrably cheerful, but it didn’t seem to have any effect at all. Of course, having a body was new to all of them. Crawly would get used to it. It wasn’t so bad, once you got past having to use parts of yourself to tell other parts to move, rather than just getting along with the business of moving in the first place. 

Still, it was miserable. Crawley was stunning; every note of ethereal aspect reflected in angelic flesh. Hair that fell down endlessly, strands curling around strands like the two of them had twirled together once, in the empty cosmos of the Beginning. Aziraphale could watch it for hours, and often did, until a turned head and yellow glare made him conscious of himself, and forced to withdraw. How he wished he could  _ help _ . Explain that to Aziraphale, Crawley was perfect, body or no; beautiful in all forms or none. But these  _ words  _ they were using now were less eloquent than the pure concepts with which they communicated before, and every time he tried, it seemed to make Crowley more annoyed. 

Slipping away from him. Bit by bit. 

* * *

The sword only manifested when he thought about it clearly, which was a problem, because Aziraphale would just as rather not. Then again, he mused, making his way across the cool, rough stones that made up the top of the Wall, mightn’t that be a good thing? If nothing happened - and why would anything happen in the Garden, God’s perfect creation? Then everything was fine, and no one would be needing any swords at all, flaming or otherwise. Yes, that was an altogether more satisfying way of seeing things. 

Aziraphale stepped up to the parapet, glancing down. He couldn’t see the Humans, though he knew they were there. The Garden was infinite as much as it was finite; it was all a bit of a metaphor, really - the upshot of which was that it wasn’t all that easy to keep track of things. Hence, he supposed, the Wall. 

It was rather a nice wall. You could sit on it, and when the sun was out, unlike now, it would grow almost uncomfortably warm, unless you shaded yourself with your wings, provided you had them. And then, wings allowing, you could enjoy Creation quite leisurely; watching clouds form out of water vapor and divine intervention; hear the susurrating song of birds and bees at a measured distance. Which, he supposed, is why it took him a moment to notice the snake.

When you think of a snake, if you ever think of such things, you might imagine something slight and unassuming. There were a number of snakes in the garden, of various lengths and coloration, some fairly huge - but this was a different order of magnitude entirely. It undulated through the underbrush, appearing and disappearing through holes in the foliage. And here and there, its golden eyes peeked through, up and straight into Aziraphale’s. “Goodness,” he said. It had been absolutely  _ ages _ . 

Angel wings were not for flying, but there was a certain order to things, and they did look quite smart when you descended with them folding neatly around you. Aziraphale landed just a few steps away from where he’d last seen Crawley, and tried to look like he had some legitimate reason to be there. Which he did, of course, but not  _ here _ , exactly. He could still hear Crawley’s serpentine body, and, he fancied, even feel it in the ground. Minute vibrations, the sort he knew Crawley could hear with his, or was it her, skin. He found himself a nice, unsuspicious sort of rock, and sat down on it. Waiting.

Time wasn’t terribly important, in the Garden, though it was the only place in which, for any practical purpose, it existed. Nevertheless, it seemed to Aziraphale that he had spent rather a lot of it here. Now and then he’d catch a glimpse of Crawley, just in passing, but always fleeting, always gone the next moment. And as the day was rather lovely, as they always were down here, he lost himself in thought, and barely noticed that the rock behind him had grown wider and taller until it started moving, sliding soft against his skin.

“Oh, hullo Crawley.”

No answer. It was a magnificent form; as awe-inspiring and delightful as all of Crawley’s aspects, but it did not speak. Or at any rate, it did not speak now. The massive head settled on Aziraphale’s lap, and they sat together, listening to the sounds of the green growing place with their ears and their bodies, and after a time, in as much as time had meaning, Aziraphale felt it was the best conversation they had ever had. 

* * *

There he was.  _ He _ . No doubt about it, even with the unusual mix of accessories, but that was Cra...owley all over, wasn’t it? And anyway, when you’d been dressing as a woman for millennia, you couldn’t expect to get it right all in one go, could you? But somehow, on Crowley, it worked. Even the wreath, which, quite frankly, Aziraphale was sure he’d worn entirely on purpose. Rather rude of an immortal being to throw the fact in the mortals’ faces, but then again, he  _ was  _ evil. 

The trick, of course, was to sidle up to him accidentally while making certain it didn’t look as deliberate as it felt. Crowley was good at observing things, that was part of their job, after all. He’d probably seen Aziraphale the moment he came in. If he’d wanted to talk, he’d have come over; probably best-

Ah. Somehow, entirely without realizing, Aziraphale  _ had  _ sidled up to Crowley and now found himself fumbling his way desperately through a conversation. “Oysters!” World fell from his mouth like drool.  _ Please stay, please come, please be with me _ . The words kept coming. “Sir. My good man.” Good words, words to make him happy. “My Lord.” Words of pleasure. 

“Crowley.” Aziraphale beamed, exhaling. 

“You keep doing that,” Crowley noted. 

“Yes! It fits you so well.” 

_ Hello! I am (I am, I am, I am) Aziraphale! And you are  _ **_Crowley_ ** _ ,  _ his Spirit sang. 

“What was that?”

“Oh. Nothing.”    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
